


Shit Haircuts for Shit Times

by untouchableface



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Bad Decisions, Drinking, Drunken Flirting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Haircuts, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 19:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18723124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untouchableface/pseuds/untouchableface
Summary: A drunk Hawke does not always make the best decisions. Varric knew this very well. And he also knew her mother’s recent death had hit her harder than she cared to admit. Which was precisely why he had to be there for her. Well, that and because he was hopelessly in love with his best friend, but that wasn't as important.





	Shit Haircuts for Shit Times

“Hawke!” From the doorway, Varric flew across her bedroom at a speed that surely broke the record of any previous dwarf race, should such a thing exist. Between the red stain spreading on her tunic at her mid-section and the dagger in her hand – 

“Hey you,” Hawke sighed. She wasn't entirely sure company was what she wanted right now, not even Varric's never-ending supply of stories and snark. “Since you're here, why don't you make yourself useful and go get me another bottle of wine from the cellar. I just spilled mine,” she pouted, gesturing vaguely to the still-wet stain on her tunic and the empty glass beside her. The rest of the wine dripped down her dressing table and pooled at her feet, not unlike the countless pools of blood they had left in their wake. At least there were no telltale holes in her tunic to prove his morbid snap-judgement right. She made no move to clean the puddle that would certainly stain her floors. 

“Hawke...” His tone was gentler this time, more cautious. He knew her mother's recent death had hit her harder than she cared to admit, her latest self-declared 'failure' in a never-ending string of unending, absolutely shitty luck. He didn't want to think that she would take her frustrations out on herself so directly, but there was something about the way she had been casually twisting the dagger in her hands that made him wonder what she was planning. A drunk Hawke was an especially impulsive Hawke, and that was not always a good thing. 

“Be my trusty dwarf and help a girl out? Pretty please? Because you love me?” Her tone suddenly switched from demanding to casually flirty, but it lacked its usual droll confidence. 

Varric huffed a sigh. He knew that asking Hawke to turn over the dagger would cause more issues than it would solve, not to mention that she probably had at least five others stashed around her room. “Alright,” he agreed. “But don't do anything fun without me while I'm gone.” 

Fun was not exactly the word that Hawke would use... but if she started before he got back, he couldn't stop her, nor could he say anything about leaving a job half-finished, which she wouldn't. Taking the dagger in hand, she began to hack at her shoulder-length locks, sawing upwards from the bottom. It was well past time she cut her unruly hair. The pieces fell one by one as she hummed in satisfaction, or something like it. 

Bringing bottles (plural) and a rag to clean her mess, Varric returned to find an uneven halo of freshly-cut hair resting around Hawke's feet, as he watched her stare at herself in the glass, jaw hanging lazily open. Her new style was shaggy and short, more like a traditional man's cut than a woman's. It was not completely hideous but definitely looked like a hack job, with longer pieces sticking out in contrast to shorter tufts. 

“Shit, Hawke.” Varric couldn't help himself, and the words tumbled out on their own. 

“You hate it.” She was suddenly stone-faced, unreadable. “At least the fucking viscount won't try to pawn his son off on me anymore if I look like this.” 

“It's... cute.” Cute? Really? That was the best word he could come up with on the spot, given the overall situation. So much for his status as an esteemed author. 

“Liar.” Her tone still held none of its usual warmth. He had always been the one exception to her direct wrath, even when she was feeling low. But her blunt critique of his comment was not entirely wrong. 

Varric ignored her tone. “If I'd known you wanted a haircut, I would've set you up with my guy.” 

Of course he had 'a guy.' Hawke couldn't help but roll her eyes. Varric was always so well-connected. “Why pay good coin for something I can do just as well myself?” Her tone shifted again, slightly, as she noticed the bounty in his arms. Hawke grabbed at the nearest bottle, prying it open before taking a swig. This time, she skipped the formalities of a glass. It was going to be one of _those_ nights. 

“For the experience, sweetness.” His casual banter came unbidden, the words flowing before he could properly think them through as he set the remaining wine bottles down. “Having someone else style your hair, and pet and fret over you? You'd love it. Probably convince him to spend the week shacking up with you, too, before he was even finished with those luscious locks.” Varric wasn't sure why he shared the last bit of information. He knew she used her... _dalliances_... as a distraction, but the mental image he'd already conjured, unbidden, of Hawke having her way with Guillerme left a bitter taste in his mouth. 

“I'm sure Mother would have loved such a luxury,” she snapped, taking the bottle again and chugging half its contents before he could even pour himself a glass. “Not really my scene though.” 

Leandra Hawke wasn't his to grieve, Varric knew. At least not in the way that Marian Hawke could. Or would. Or should. Hell, what exactly was he doing here anyway? 

The worst part was, as Hawke continued to stare at herself in the mirror, she began to sob, silent tears rolling down her face before her breath caught in her throat, suddenly coming only in gasps. “Guess I fucked this up too,” she choked out. 

Well, shit.

Varric hovered for a moment before taking the dagger from her hands and wrapping her in a tight hug. Her hands grabbed cloyingly at his duster, pulling him in painfully close to her, as she buried her face in his chest.

Neither were sure how long they stayed there, Varric standing vaguely uncomfortably as Marian clung to him and howled. And she was _Marian_ in these in-between moments, not a larger-than-life hero, not some rogue who could outdo him in any contest of skill other than crossbow-shooting (not that he'd admit that), not the same sarcastic Hawke that drank and played cards and swore. Just Marian, his best friend; the one person he'd slowly come to realize that he'd give anything for, if only he could guarantee her a happy ending. But today was not that day. 

In the meantime, he did his best to comfort her, pressing small kisses to the top of her head and murmuring into her hair as his hands kneaded at her back. His declarations could wait until another time. He just needed her to be alright. 

Finally, she looked up at him tearfully, her face flushed and eyes red. He had never seen her this completely undone, not even on the nights she drunkenly crawled into his bed at the Hanged Man, or the mornings after when they were badly hung over. “Why d'ya even put up with me anyway?” This level of vulnerability was rare for her, and he knew he had to tread lightly. 

“Because you put up with me. And I can't have some other dwarf replacing me as your trusty sidekick,” he grinned down at her. “And nobody else will tell your story like I can.” Keep it light, Tethras. So far, so good, he hoped. 

“Ugh. Do me a favour and leave this part out,” Hawke moaned half to herself, pulling away from him and sinking her head into her hands. “And write me with heaving bosoms and a flowing mane, or whatever other shit sells these days.” This past week had been far harder on her than she cared to admit, even to her trusty sidekick, and it left her feeling like she was trying to balance on the edge of a dagger. Her nerves were frayed, and her usual solution of more wine wasn't helping at this point. Still, she lifted the bottle to her lips and took another long sip before finally passing it to Varric, before swiping at her cheeks and mouth. “ _Do_ you hate it?” 

This many moods from Hawke over the course of minutes or hours was going to give him whiplash, Varric mused. “Do I hate what?” 

“This,” Hawke gestured to the mess that was her hair. “Honestly. Do you?” It was somehow easier to focus on the immediacy of her hair than to talk about what was really bothering her. 

“It brings out your jawline.” That part wasn't untrue, at least. And for all that Varric could return the sharpness she'd been dealing out earlier, he didn't particularly care to add to her distress. He passed the bottle back, though there wasn't much left. 

“That's a cop-out and you know it,” Hawke grumbled, jabbing a finger into his chest as if to add emphasis to her very logical point. 

“Oi, watch the chest hair! It's my best asset, after all.” A good distraction was probably what she needed, Varric reasoned. But Hawke didn't take the bait. 

Instead, she snorted, jabbing him again in the chest for good measure. “Maker's tits, tell me the truth for goddamn once.” She polished off the last of the wine while staring intently at him, her eyes never leaving his. 

Her gaze was unsettling; if only he _could_ tell her the truth. And not just about the hair, either. “It suits you.” Hell, she could be entirely bald and he'd still be proud to be at her side. “It'll be better for fighting too, not always getting in your face.” 

“That still doesn't mean you like it though,” Hawke rolled her eyes. It was a shit haircut and she looked like shit and she felt like shit, and she wasn't entirely sure why it was suddenly important to her that he supported this particular reckless, shitty decision. 

“Like I said, it's cute. Makes you look like those fancy dogs that Orlesians bring with them to court,” Varric grinned again, making it clear that he was teasing. 

“That's me, purebread through and through.” And then Hawke found herself laughing, and Varric ruffled her hair as if she were a small yappy dog, and he chuckled too, low and warm, and suddenly she felt like she would be okay. “Wanna help me fix it? I did an _awful_ job.” 

“Sure, Hawke.” This time, Varric's cocky grin was a real smile. Dutifully, he picked up the dagger and began to even out her more ragged ends. 

In the mirror, Hawke watched his hands and face as he worked. Varric wore the same expression he had when writing a particularly riveting chapter of his latest serial – completely immersed on the task at hand. If she were honest, she liked a lot of things about his face. And hands. And maybe there _was_ something to his theory about letting someone else fret over her, not that she would ever admit any of it aloud. “Gonna add master hairstylist to your long list of accomplishments? Bet you could make good coin and find more women to seduce that way.” 

“Nah,” he drolled back. “Guillerme couldn't handle the competition.” 'Only for you, Hawke, only for you,' he thought to himself. 

“Good. I didn't want to share you anyway,” she grinned. Yeah, this grief shit sucked right now and it made her do more stupid things than usual, and her head would surely hurt in the morning from all of the drinking and crying, but somehow having Varric with her made it seem bearable. “And hey, that actually looks _decent_.” 

Miracle-worker that he was, Varric had managed to mostly even out her choppy tufts, leaving her with a shaggy bob that gave the impression of windswept effortlessness. “I'm wounded by your lack of faith in me, Serrah! Mortally wounded!” He made a grandiose show of pretending to stab himself with the dagger, mostly to cover his flood of relief. Not that he would admit it aloud, but Varric had been terrified of making it worse, that she would be upset again. 

“Now, do you take your payment in wine, or in... what was it? Shacking up, as you put it so gracefully earlier?” Hawke waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Such a fine job deserves a veeeeery generous payment.” She grinned salaciously at him, only half-joking about the latter offer. 

“We wouldn't want to muss up your fantastic new 'do by rolling around in bed, now would we,” Varric purred, reaching instinctively for the wine to cover his nerves, this time pouring two glasses. He very much wanted to do exactly that, now that she had mentioned it and all he could picture was – yeah. Time to keep his hands and mouth busy doing other things, because it would be a fantastically bad idea, given how drunk she already was. He didn't want Hawke to do anything else impulsive that might not be fixed so easily, and that by far trumped his own feelings, such as they were. 

“I guess you would know best, good Serrah,” Hawke smirked. “The wine it is,” she added, gratefully accepting his generous pour. 

From then on she kept her hair styled in that same shaggy bob, though she _did_ eventually let Varric send her to Guillerme.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I always played my Hawke with long hair, but I friggin' love the idea of a good grief haircut and I also love the default f!Hawke's shag, so here you go.


End file.
